Just Getting By
by AhiFlame
Summary: Midquel to Anastasia. The story details how Vlad and Dimitri met and formed the bond they share, as well as the adventures they had before the bulk of the movie takes place. Slash-free!
1. Chapter 1

_Disclaimer: I don't own _Anastasia_ or any of the characters therein._

_[A/N: This picks up where the first bit of the movie left off, right after Dimitri helped Anastasia and Marie escape. Just an exploration of how Vlad and Dimitri came to the unique patnership they display in the movie. This is **not slash**. Okay, all that said, enjoy! :D]_

**Chapter One**

The world faded back into existence as a cacophony of sounds. Thunderous crashes and angry shouts penetrated even the thick walls of the palace. Sensing the danger that was practically palpable on the air, Dimitri forced his umber eyes open.

He knew this room. Though it looked foreboding in the reddish glow that lit it from without, it was comforting to find himself in familiar surroundings. The boy started to right himself, but the slightest motion of his right arm dropped him back to the ground with a hiss of pain. In a flash he recalled the angry features of the soldier that had struck him and the events that led up to that moment. Most overwhelmingly, he remembered _her_--Anastasia.

The strangeness of the situation was slow to settle in his mind. That evening, amidst the panic and chaos, he had broken all the rules; not only had he had the gall to speak directly to members of the royal family (and in such an abrupt manner at that, not even taking the time to acknowledge their titles) he had laid hands upon them. Even though his uncouth actions had saved their lives the universe had taken its revenge for the disregard of the law, as his throbbing arm evidenced.

These ponderings brought back to mind his scandalous and brief conversation with the princess. She had been adamant about retrieving some item. He had been so concerned about getting her to safety that he could not recall what that had been. As he strove to recall her words, his eyes ranged about the room. They passed from the shattered windowpane, to the upturned and battered furniture, to the dollhouse, and, finally, they settled on the glimmer of gold on the floor before him.

He picked up the small item in his left hand and examined it carefully. The inlays were extraordinarily fine, the piece as a whole was flawless. Dimitri tilted his head to one side. It was gorgeous and obviously of significant value, but what was it? One thing he felt sure of was that he had found the item the princess had desired to bring with her. He determined then and there to return it to her and perhaps earn some favor from the young beauty.

Shouts in the corridor drew his attention with a start. He clutched the precious item tightly and awkwardly gained his feet. His arm was throbbing dangerously with every movement but Dimitri knew he had to be gone before the owners of those voices arrived.

He held the small box between his collarbone and chin while he clawed the secret door open. Dimitri ducked into the passage and pulled the door shut, plunging himself into darkness. He hesitated; he could run down the stairs now, as quickly as he could, but the voices were so close he feared his footsteps would give away his location. The boy froze as heavy footfalls sounded in the room beyond. There was no running now.

"Where is the boy?" a deep voice growled. Dimitri shrank away from the sound. His heels hung over the edge of the step and he forced himself to be still to avoid falling.

"It looks like he found a way out. I suppose no one would pay any attention to a servant boy making a run for it. I doubt he knew where they were headed anyway." The second voice was less gruff than the first and higher pitched.

"He could at least have told us how they managed to escape. For all we know they could still be in the palace, in hiding."

"I doubt it. The royals are running scared."

At some cue unknown to Dimitri the men turned and exited the room. Their footfalls were loud even through the wall panel. The boy waited until their steps faded away. He inched his way down the servants' stairway, holding the gilded box tightly in his good hand.

As Dimitri scoured the streets of Saint Petersburg, a horrifying thought consumed his mind. He had been there, hiding on the dais behind the thrones watching the grand ball, when that intimidating man had strolled in. The monk was well known throughout Russia, but his reputation was far from laudable. It was known that he had always dabbled in the dark arts; only the Tsarina's favor had kept him from banishment.

Dimitri had heard that vile monk proclaim his curse on the royal family. The audacity of the declaration had terrified him as well as everyone else. The boy was certain that these events of chaos and upheaval were Rasputin's doing. Indeed, it would take a supernatural force to undo the regal Romanovs, and they had been dethroned.

The boy soon became desperate in his search. The city's streets were roiling with life. He was too short to see farther than the back of the person in front of him. His arm was continuously jostled as he was shoved aside by pedestrians or carriages; jolts of pain shot through his body that threatened to overwhelm his senses. Several times he stumbled, almost losing his grip on the precious box.

Minute by minute, the situation grew darker. Dimitri lost his way and found himself on a less inhabited street. Blissfully, his arm was spared from the torment of impacts. He held his injured arm tight across his chest with the other and plodded miserably onward. It eventually became clear that he was on a wild goose chase, seeking the proverbial needle in a haystack. Surely the royals had cleared the city by now.

He was pondering giving up and finding a place to stay for the night when the clamor of hooves on stone wrenched his head up. A team of draft horses, coated in foamy sweat, were charging down the narrow lane. The driver whipped the team mercilessly, sending the horses even faster on their way. The panic-stricken animals did not even see the boy barring their way and the driver did not care.

"Out of the way!" the coachman screamed, smacking the whip against his horses' flanks. One of the beasts screamed and threw its head.

Dimitri had had little warning of the approach, so swiftly did it come, that he managed to make it only a few steps toward the nearest wall. The team and carriage bore down on him in seconds. The horse's near shoulder struck the boy full on the right side, sending him sprawling out of the way of the pursuing wheels.

Dimitri landed hard. He lost his grip on the golden box, which skittered well out of reach, striking the alley wall before coming to rest in a patch of mud. The force of the impact and subsequent pain sent the boy reeling into the always-waiting darkness.

A figure, somewhat heftier than the average man, stepped out from his shadowed hiding place. The hood of a cloak concealed his features. He had witnessed the boy's plight and his inherently kind nature prompted him to act. However, this man had special considerations for his own safety and feared that interfering might draw unwanted attention.

As casually as he could make it appear, he walked toward the unconscious boy. He veered away from the lad at the last moment as he spotted a glimmer of gold near the wall. The stranger picked the item up, rubbed some of the mud off on his cloak, and started at the sight of gold. He looked down at the boy with renewed interest.

The child's russet hair was tussled and caked with mud. His clothing was that of a peasant, though the fact that it was not threadbare proved he wasn't the poorest of the poor. He appeared to have been well cared for and the stranger wondered where the boy had come from.

With a start, the man realized he was dawdling too long. He shoved the gilded box in his pocket and turned to leave. He advanced several strides and then hesitated. He glanced reluctantly over his shoulder. The last thing he needed was another burden; however his gentle nature could not abide the thought of leaving the lad to freeze to death in the street. Heaving a sigh, the stranger doubled back and retrieved the boy.

As he made his way through the crowded streets, the man felt grateful for his wisdom in renting a lodging earlier that day. Normally, the sight of a man carrying such an unusual burden would have been noticed. However, the chaos that gripped the city made such a scene admissible, even normal.

The stranger conveyed his newfound charge to the apartment he had rented. Upon entering he set the boy down on the pallet and turned to bar the door; after all, his soft heart was not without precaution.

Turning around, he surveyed the shadowy surroundings. A single grimy window was placed high on the only exterior wall. The light it admitted was minimal at best and the man scrounged around for a candle, which he promptly lit. The flickering yellow light showed how dismal the space truly was. Shards of broken furniture were stacked haphazardly in the corners of the room. A decaying table was pressed against one wall, accompanied by a sturdier looking chair. Pieces of the original chair were no doubt to be found amidst the rubble.

Sighing, the man removed his cloak and set about reorganizing and tidying the room. It proved a filthy task; soon the air in the room was heavy with dust and both man and boy were coated in a film of the stuff. Despite all the noise the stranger made, the boy did not stir.

Once the room had been set in a semblance of order, the man turned his attention to his ward. Even in the candlelight the growing bruise on the boy's face was apparent, no doubt from the impact of the horse's shoulder. The feeble illumination also brought attention to the contusion that seemed to be leaking from beneath the boy's right sleeve.

As gently as he could, the man rolled the boy's sleeve back. The action revealed a sizable and ugly discoloration that covered half of his forearm.

A crash echoed out in the street and the boy started into wakefulness. He glanced about in fright, similar to how a deer looks about when it hears the wolves' howl. When his gaze landed on the stranger holding his arm he drew back, wincing as he held his arm close to him.

"Do not be afraid," the man said gently. His dark beard was full and obscured the lower half of his face. The man's close-set ebony eyes twinkled in the flickering candle light. His kindly words, accompanied by his apparently unthreatening nature, put the boy at ease.

"Is your arm troubling you?"

Dimitri nodded, his eyes glazed with pain. Sweat was prominent on his brow. His arm had hurt enough before, but with the added stress of the incident with the horse, it was unbearable. Darkness seemed to surround him, threatening to take him back into its unwelcome clutches.

"Why don't you let Vlad have a look at it?"

Dimitri extended his arm immediately, hopeful that the man could mend the throbbing limb. Vlad gently probed the boy's arm with his fingers, watching carefully for a reaction. As his fingers neared the wrist, Dimitri hissed and his muscles tensed. Vlad's fingers were at the center of the extensive bruise.

"Wait a moment, my boy," Vlad murmured as he rose. He looked about the dingy room and finally his eyes alighted on the desired object. He rummaged through a pile of debris, pulling out a few thin, elongated planks of wood. Vlad retrieved his cloak on his way back.

The boy was tenderly poking at the wound on his face. When he saw Vlad kneel down before him, he extended his injured arm. The man set to work splinting the limb and immobilizing the wrist. The boy looked on in fascination, occasionally wincing as his arm was jarred.

"What's your name boy?" Vlad asked benevolently.

The lad's cinnamon colored eyes darted to the elder's face. He saw no ulterior motive there, no devious expression. "Dimitri."

Vlad finished setting the boy's arm and released it. Dimitri tested the extra weight of the planks and strips of cloth from the cloak. His arm still ached terribly but with the restraint of motion the pain was reduced.

"Thank you, sir," Dimitri mumbled. The boy's eyelids were drooping. The stress and late hour were taking their toll on him.

"You are quite welcome my boy. Rest now and in the morning we will talk further."

_[A/N: Well that's the start of it. I honestly don't know where this story is going (well, excepting that it will end where the movie picks up) or how long I'll actually work on it. Hope you've enjoyed reading thus far!]_


	2. Chapter 2

_Disclaimer: I don't own _Anastasia_ or any of the characters therein._

**Chapter Two**

Dimitri woke to sunlight filtering through the dirty window, and the aroma and sound of frying eggs. He yawned and stretched, flinching as the muscles in his arm pulled against the weakened bone. He held the arm tight against him, clenching his teeth against the pain. His stomach growled, reminding him that he had had nothing to eat for over twenty-four hours.

The boy turned his attention to the tiny stove across the room where Vlad stood, preparing breakfast. "Good morning sir," Dimitri called.

"Ah, good morning my boy! Are you ready for a hearty zavtrak?" Vlad answered cheerily, motioning to the eggs sizzling on the stove.

Dimitri nodded eagerly and rose, pacing over to the table. He hesitated. "Is there anything I may do sir?"

"No, no, no Dimitri! Sit down, please, and know you do not need to address me so formally. To you I am simply 'Vlad'. Just as, to me, you are simply Dimitri."

Dimitri did as he was bidden, seating himself in the nearest chair. He felt very uncomfortable; at the palace he was accustomed to eating last, and then only after much work. Being treated as an equal by this man, who was obviously of more quality than he, was both a compliment and unnerving.

The food was on the table shortly. The two ate silently; the whole while Dimitri was uneasy with the arrangement. Eventually Dimitri's discomfiture prompted Vlad to break the silence.

"I heard the most unusual news in the market this morning," Vlad began slowly. When the boy looked up from his plate with a keen spark of interest in his eye, the elder deemed the subject worthy of continuance. "Apparently Grigori Rasputin, the so-called 'Mad Monk', was found drowned in the river this morning."

Dimitri shuddered involuntarily. Images from that foreboding night at the palace sprang unbidden to his mind. The ragged-looking monk had paced in, parting the crowd by virtue of his dark aura. After the monk's worsening exchange with the Tsar he had declared his curse. The words echoed hauntingly in Dimitri's mind. His avidity to find the princess flared back into life.

"…was thinking about going on the road. Saint Petersburg has become too unstable for my tastes. Would you like to join me?" Vlad looked expectantly at the boy. "Dimitri?"

It took several moments for Dimitri to realize that a question had been directed at him. "Hmm?"

"I am leaving town this afternoon. Are you coming with me?"

The boy's fervent answer took Vlad by surprise. "I cannot. I must find her!"

"Find who my boy?"

Here Dimitri hesitated. He realized he knew almost nothing about this man, specifically regarding his allegiances. Dimitri shook his head almost apologetically. He owed Vlad so much already but the name of the one he sought was a price too high to pay.

Vlad sighed knowingly. "Ah, young love," he muttered.

Dimitri's head shot up, a defensive look in his eye. "It's not a matter of love!"

"Then what matter is she to you Dimitri?"

Dimitri didn't miss a beat and quickly formulated a lie. "I saw a girl in the market yesterday. She dropped something that was, apparently, very precious to her. As her mother dragged her away, the girl was very nearly in tears over the loss. I found the item and have been trying to return it since." The fib seemed acceptable to him. He was glad for the skill he'd honed in the kitchens when bits of food would go missing and he would, rightfully, be blamed.

Vlad narrowed his eyes ever so slightly. His time spent in the imperial court had honed his almost omniscient ability to see through lies. The boy was much better at convincingly fabricating tales than one would expect from a child of his years. But Vlad, with his extensive experience, saw through the act. He also knew that to expose the boy's lie would be unnecessarily damaging to his confidence. There would be time enough to get to the truth.

"I see," the elder began slowly. "Well Dimitri, I can hardly condemn such an honorable intention. However I do not think it wise for me to remain in this city much longer. As I stated before, you are welcome to accompany me. However, it seems you have a quest of your own to fulfill. What did you say her name was?"

Dimitri, his mind occupied with thoughts of her, slipped up. "Anastasia."

A thrill coursed through Vlad like lightning. The Grand Duchess? If the boy had truly seen the princess alive the day before, it was entirely possible she could have survived the siege. A surviving member of the royal family was the only hope for the courtiers; if the royal family still lived they could be reinstated and everything return to the way it was. Quite suddenly, the boy's quest became Vlad's.

Dimitri was staring worriedly at the man. As soon as he'd realized his folly he began chastising himself; for all he knew, this man was part of the revolution! Vlad's silence weighed heavily on Dimitri's mind.

Vlad shook himself from his thoughts and realized the effect his sudden muteness had on the boy. "I see, and what was it you were striving to return to this young lady?"

The boy started as if stung. He frantically checked the few places an item could be concealed in his wardrobe and came up empty.

Vlad dug the gilded box from his pocket. "Is this it? I saw you drop it when you fell in the street."

Dimitri relaxed immediately. "Yes, that is it! Thank you!" He accepted the box reverently.

"You know, Dimitri, I am acquainted with a family. Their youngest daughter is named Anastasia. Perhaps the girl you are seeking and the girl I know are one in the same?"

Dimitri's expression was guarded but he could not conceal his excitement at this prospect. "Do you think so?"

"It is a possibility."

The boy suddenly looked crestfallen as a new idea occurred to him. "But I suppose we will not have the chance to find out; you said you were leaving this afternoon."

Vlad was dismayed. To change his story now might arouse the boy's unusually acute suspicions. What a hole he'd dug for himself! "Yes, I must depart today."

Dimitri nodded resignedly. He had hoped he could count on a companion in his search. He pushed his chair back and rose stiffly. "Then I will trouble you no further. Thank you for your courtesy." He offered a bow of gratitude.

Vlad stood as well. He extended his left hand, acknowledging that the boy could not shake with his bound right hand. "Best of luck, my boy."

"Thank you," Dimitri took the proffered hand, "and to you."

At the time neither of them realized that that handshake was the beginning of a partnership; a friendship that would see and endure many fantastic adventures.

_[A/N: Zavtrak is breakfast. Thank you to all who read, reviewed, and put this story on your alerts list. I wasn't sure how active this fandom was, but I'm pleased to see some readers!]_


	3. Chapter 3

_Disclaimer: I don't own _Anastasia_ or any of the characters therein. Feliks and Irina are mine, and I'm sure no one else would want them. :P_

**Chapter Three**

Once again Dimitri found himself on his own. The winter wind seemed colder as he paced down the lane. He dragged his feet in the freshly fallen snow and ran his thumb over the smooth surface of the gilded box.

His thoughts were not in the present. He was thinking back—had it only been a day ago?—to the siege, to his brief contact with the princess. An image of her stayed at the forefront of his mind as he scanned the faces of those he passed. Every lock of reddish hair, every young girl, every pair of blue eyes drew his attention with keen interest. The moment he realized the features were not those of the girl he was searching for he would move onward. With each brief encounter his hopes rose higher and fell harder.

At the conclusion of the day he was exhausted, hungry, and trudging on with deflated optimism. As a part of him had feared, his search was entirely in vain. His arm emanated a dull ache and his stomach rumbled. His spirits were dampened further as he realized he had nowhere to sleep and no food to eat.

Further down the lane light marked the entrance to a tavern. For the briefest moment Dimitri hoped to get food there. His heart fell as he realized he had no money.

The boy found himself in a strange situation. His whole life food and lodging had been a given, something he'd taken for granted. Now that he had no access to those commodities he felt miserably alone and helpless.

He traipsed toward the tavern anyway, daring to hope some kindhearted passerby would take pity on him. After all, it had happened once before. Perhaps his luck was not yet spent.

Dimitri approached the inn's closed door. Within he heard a steady stream of mottled conversation, punctured by the occasional raucous laugh. Candles burned in the windows, but much to Dimitri's dismay their warmth did not spill into the alley in which he stood.

He did not dare to enter the tavern alone. The last time he had done so he had been thrown out. The incident had not been at this tavern, but the lesson had been learned. Local bars were reserved for men; children were forbidden.

The boy watched several men come and go. Each would give him a curious or irritated glance before continuing on their way. None offered even the slightest friendly gesture. Dimitri remained near the tavern door for over an hour. As the sun descended the temperature dropped sharply. The boy stood shivering when the door opened once more.

"What're you doing here?" a deep voice growled.

Dimitri spun around, his eyes wide. The question had come from a heavyset man with thick facial hair and dark, beady eyes. It was clear this was a man who was accustomed to wielding authority, even if that power only extended as far as the boundaries of his inn.

"I'm s-sorry if I of-f-fend, s-sir, I--" Talking was made difficult by his violently shaking frame. The other's next words made trying pointless.

"Shut up you wretch! I don't need any street rats lurking about my place. Now get outta here before I make you sorry you ever stopped by." The man pounded a clenched fist into his palm to accentuate his point.

"Please, s-sir, I just need a place to--"

Dimitri jumped aside, narrowly avoiding the fist thrown at him. Deciding not to press the matter, he turned and scampered down the street, slipping often in the fresh snow.

When he felt he was far enough away, he slowed his pace. He glanced over his shoulder, panting, and was relieved that the man was not pursuing. His brown eyes were troubled as he turned and continued on his way.

Hours later the boy was scarcely moving, taking one step where at a normal pace he could have accomplished four. His limbs were numb with cold and his flesh chapped by the wind. He could not help but think of, just a year past, the man who had wandered from the palace deep in his cups one evening and never returned. He had been found frozen to death the next day. Absently, Dimitri wondered if that would be his fate.

Then, he spotted a single lantern hanging from a building, a weak beacon fighting against the darkness. Dimitri forced himself onward, a feeble hope rising in his chest. He arrived at the building and, ignoring the front entrance, slunk around the back of the structure. He was searching for a way in to the place, his frozen fingers probing at every possible niche and handle. Finally he found doors embedded in the ground. With a tug he pried one open and slipped gratefully inside, closing the door behind him.

He was so fatigued that as soon as he was safely enclosed in the space he dropped to the floor and went to sleep.

..........

Feliks yawned and stretched. He had risen at an early hour. There was much work to be done in preparing for the coming day and in his old age it took him ever longer to get things ready. His wife, Irina, was readying to light the stove and had ordered him out into the elements to retrieve firewood.

He trudged through the thick layer of snow, his thin overcoat doing little to keep out the biting wind. Years of exposure to Russia's harsh climate had worn lines in his leather-like skin.

Feliks retrieved several chunks of wood from the pile at the rear of the inn. As he was heading back inside, he paused at the cellar doors. Tracks, not fresh, but mere indents in the snow, indicated that someone had been there before the snow had finished falling. Feliks knew that neither he nor his wife had visited the cellar from the outside: it was much more practical to access it from within.

The tracks led up to the cellar but did not depart. Feliks determined that whoever had been there was either adept at using his own tracks to retreat or still remained. The old man deposited his pile of wood with Irina and then went back outside. He grabbed the axe from the chopping block, carrying it lightly at his side.

Feliks flung the cellar doors open with ease. Snow sifted into the interior and landed on the curled up form of a young boy. Feliks dropped his axe instantly, struck by the astonishing resemblance this lad had to his own deceased son. With an agility that belied his age, the man leapt into the cellar and retrieved the child.

"Irina!" Feliks called, kicking the door leading from the cellar to the house open.

"For goodness sakes Feliks, lower your voice! I'm not deaf yet you know," was the irritable reply from the kitchen.

"But Irina--"

"What did I just say? I think you're the one getting hard of hearing!" Irina snapped as she tottered into the pantry where Feliks was calling from. "Good Lord Feliks, where did you find him?" The resemblance did not evade her notice. For a fleeting moment she thought she saw their son in her husband's arms. But that was impossible; Lazar had been dead for over a decade.

"He was in the cellar; must've snuck in late last night." Feliks stretched the boy's limp form toward his wife as if trying to pass off the responsibility.

Irina shook her head, her long grayish-white hair swinging from side to side with the motion. "Well put him out back. We don't have the time or money to take in a stray." Though her words were harsh, it was clear to Feliks that Irina wanted to keep the lad. How could she not? It was like recovering lost time with their beloved son.

"You know we can't do that. He would die."

"Are you sure he's not dead already? He certainly looks like it."

Feliks looked down at the boy in his arms. The child's skin had a faint bluish tint and his breath was a slow rasp. The fact that the boy was weakly shivering was at least encouraging. Over the years Feliks had heard that when a body stops shivering in the cold it has given up on life and is sure to die.

"You know quite well we can let him rest by the fire for awhile; that won't cost us a thing," Feliks protested.

Irina threw her hands in the air. "Do what you want Feliks. After all, I'm just your wife."

Feliks smiled to himself. His wife could be an annoyance at times, but he appreciated her subtle humor. He carried the boy upstairs and deposited him in a small side room. Pipes from the stove below carried heat to the upper level. Feliks tossed a few blankets over the boy and then headed downstairs to tend to his chores.

_[A/N: Wow, original characters. Can you believe it? Hope they didn't muck up the story for you at all...]_


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